HOME | DD

Description
There's a heady feel to it as I crane my neck and lean out of my bedroom window. The cool air brushes against my bare arms, making me shiver, but I only lean further into the nothingness. I remember doing this before, at the house of some long-forgotten family friend. The night there was endless in front of the window melding with the North Sea, and only when I leaned out from the waist-up could I see the lights of a city or town south of the river. The air was fresh, clear of pollution, but had a salty tang to it that was addictive and made me want to draw even more of that air into my lungs.

The air here is polluted, tainted by factories and peat bogs, but it is green. It's green because it smells of fields and forests, of fresh-cut grass and perfumed pine trees. Sometimes it smells like the metallic spice of factories, whenever the pixie dust of the industial estate is blown in the right direction. In the summer it is foul and reeks of the peat that farmers spread on their fields. In the winter it is empty and there is no scent to be found anywhere - water, water, water, snow, frozen water everywhere. In the autumn it smells like dead leaves and warmth - the final indian summer days before the frost sweeps in completely.

The air smells best in the spring. It smells of new life, budding leaves and rain. The sound of life resonates in it - there are no baby lambs to bleat or rabbits to snuffle, but the birds live in the woods around my street and under the tiles on the roofs of houses. They sing for us every morning, even though we seldom hear it, for the warmth of our beds is much preferred to chilled early-morning air. They sing in the evenings too, a sweet lullaby that falls on deaf ears of those who prefer artificial music.

I hear the dull roar of cars along the roads; though it is less of a roar and more of a swoosh. They are nowhere nearby as I live in a little cul-de-sac, but I can hear the sweeping echo of traffic as it moves almost systematically around the town. If the air is still, I can sometimes hear breaks squeaking as a neighbour pulls into their drive, home after a long day. If a breeze has whipped up, I can sometimes hear wind chimes softly whispering nearby, lulling me into a feeling that's difficult to describe - something between a calm trance and an urge to explore further than I ever have.

There's an entire world out there, waiting for me; the world of the day and of the night. I can sense it. I can hear and smell what is waiting for me outside my house, outside my street, outside my estate. I can't see that far. I can only see as far as the trees bordering the next street over, the houses lined up there. I can only see as far as the clouds above my head, those clouds that obscure the sky behind them and turn it a deep burgandy that would surely be black were it not for light pollution. I cannot see the world beyond, but maybe my other senses will guide me in the right direction.

Such is the unspoken logic and law of the night.

Description
There's a heady feel to it as I crane my neck and lean out of my bedroom window. The cool air brushes against my bare arms, making me shiver, but I only lean further into the nothingness. I remember doing this before, at the house of some long-forgotten family friend. The night there was endless in front of the window melding with the North Sea, and only when I leaned out from the waist-up could I see the lights of a city or town south of the river. The air was fresh, clear of pollution, but had a salty tang to it that was addictive and made me want to draw even more of that air into my lungs.

The air here is polluted, tainted by factories and peat bogs, but it is green. It's green because it smells of fields and forests, of fresh-cut grass and perfumed pine trees. Sometimes it smells like the metallic spice of factories, whenever the pixie dust of the industial estate is blown in the right direction. In the summer it is foul and reeks of the peat that farmers spread on their fields. In the winter it is empty and there is no scent to be found anywhere - water, water, water, snow, frozen water everywhere. In the autumn it smells like dead leaves and warmth - the final indian summer days before the frost sweeps in completely.

The air smells best in the spring. It smells of new life, budding leaves and rain. The sound of life resonates in it - there are no baby lambs to bleat or rabbits to snuffle, but the birds live in the woods around my street and under the tiles on the roofs of houses. They sing for us every morning, even though we seldom hear it, for the warmth of our beds is much preferred to chilled early-morning air. They sing in the evenings too, a sweet lullaby that falls on deaf ears of those who prefer artificial music.

I hear the dull roar of cars along the roads; though it is less of a roar and more of a swoosh. They are nowhere nearby as I live in a little cul-de-sac, but I can hear the sweeping echo of traffic as it moves almost systematically around the town. If the air is still, I can sometimes hear breaks squeaking as a neighbour pulls into their drive, home after a long day. If a breeze has whipped up, I can sometimes hear wind chimes softly whispering nearby, lulling me into a feeling that's difficult to describe - something between a calm trance and an urge to explore further than I ever have.

There's an entire world out there, waiting for me; the world of the day and of the night. I can sense it. I can hear and smell what is waiting for me outside my house, outside my street, outside my estate. I can't see that far. I can only see as far as the trees bordering the next street over, the houses lined up there. I can only see as far as the clouds above my head, those clouds that obscure the sky behind them and turn it a deep burgandy that would surely be black were it not for light pollution. I cannot see the world beyond, but maybe my other senses will guide me in the right direction.

Such is the unspoken logic and law of the night.